


Like a Good Catholic Boy

by tryptophan



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Catholic Character, Character Study, Gen, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryptophan/pseuds/tryptophan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Devil drives Matt to the Confessional.</p><p>How Matt ended up giving a rather strange, rambling confession to Fr. Lantom in Ep. 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Good Catholic Boy

**Author's Note:**

> References events shortly before the Netflix series began for adult Matt Murdock. 
> 
> The Sacarment of Penance and Reconciliation in the Roman Catholic church is informally and interchangeably know to Catholics as Penance, Reconciliation and/or Confession. All terms are used interchangeably here. 
> 
> I’m new at this fan fic thing. I was interested in how Matt ended up going to Fr. Lantom’s church for confession in the first episode. Matt’s an intelligent guy who (should) know how the Sacrament of Penance typically goes, and what it’s for and not for. This fic is the conclusion I came to as to how he ended up giving a confession that bore so little resemblance to a typical confession, and why he would ask for forgiveness preemptively, which he should know isn’t allowed.

Matt thought it was just going to be the once, to save the little girl from her father, but two weeks later he found himself tying a makeshift mask around his head and going out again to help a woman in an alley. Since then, it’s happened more and more frequently, and lately it’s been nearly every night. The need for violence grows even faster the more he feeds it, but after it’s over, after the adrenaline crash, after every cut and scrape and bruise rudely lets itself be known, he’s left with just the guilt of his actions. It’s not killing, but a proper examination of conscience includes inflicting unnecessary harm on another person, and he knows he’s continued to punch people once they had given up or even blacked out. It’s always the same, once the fight is over. He drags himself home, cleans his body and his hands (though they never feel really clean), and crawls into bed. He prays for those whom he has hurt, for his father’s soul, and for his own, which he knows is further darkened by each of his acts of violence.

After a couple months of this, the darkness (the devil, as his grandma would say) is finally too much to deal with. At the end of his rope and humanity, he revisits familiar ground, which is how he finds himself looking up the old church he and his father attended with some frequency. He skims over the basic info for the church; ensures it’s the right address and that it’s not a priest who might recognize him, and notes that in addition to the standard Saturday afternoon time, they also have Reconciliation from 6-7PM on Thursday nights.

Desperation and some deeply ingrained compulsion drive him back to the church. Something other than his rational mind compel his feet to continue propelling him forward. He rehearses what he’ll say as he approaches the church, reminding himself of the form of the sacrament, cataloging his sins in number and kind, running through the Act of Contrition to make sure he still remembers it (his grandma would be proud). Despite this, his heart is in his throat, and he’s not entirely sure why he’s doing this, why he’s returning to this church. Though it was a regular part of his life in the orphanage and part of college, he hasn’t been to Confession in several years. He also knows, that while the guilt he feels over his actions is threatening to destroy him, he won’t (can’t?) stop.

Finding the church is easy. After all, it’s in his old neighborhood, and he remembers the wrought-iron fence nestled amongst the other buildings.

He could still turn away, head home, head anywhere else, but instead he turns toward the church.

Water’s an easy smell to pick out, especially amidst the other church smells of old wood, old books, candles (both snuffed out and burning), dust, and incense. Old habits and a spark of genuine faith lead him to the holy water font. His fingers barely graze the surface of the water and he crosses himself. By smell and sensing heartbeats, he can tell there are only a couple of others waiting, and all of them are old women, easily twice his age.

One of the women asks him if he’s here for confession. When he responds in the affirmative, she offers to help him to the end of the line and informs him that there are three ahead of him. He thanks her.

His heart is still in his throat, beating too hard and too fast. Usually, he can control his nerves (Stick made sure of that), and while he never exactly looked forward to confession, he’s never felt this dread. But tonight, all that goes through his mind, over and over, is “Why am I doing this? I shouldn’t be here. I want to stop, but I don’t want to stop. I want to want to stop. I think.”

The wait is interminable and over far too soon. He steps into the confessional, decides to sit rather than kneel. He hears the slide draw back, and realizes that for the first time in a very long time, he has no idea what will come out of his mouth.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned…”


End file.
